


Bloodbeat

by oldestcharm



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24142873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldestcharm/pseuds/oldestcharm
Summary: The Department of Magical Transportation is in disarray and the Potters are forced to spend an afternoon bonding.
Kudos: 3





	Bloodbeat

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as part of a series of character development challenges in an old roleplay group. It's also incredibly self-indulgent and written before the Pottermore update, but if I'm honest I never really bothered with that to begin with.

It is one of those rare days when the Potters have spent more than an hour together in one room. James is unsure how this has come about and whose idea it was exactly, but he is willing to pass the time, even though they're on a muggle train, packed in a tiny compartment and both of his parents seem to be occupied with other things such as reading. James doesn't blame them. He knows that books can be fascinating and worth learning from, that letters contain wonderful thoughts, usually from friends, but he also knows that the Daily Prophet has rarely put anyone in a good mood, so he is doing his best to ignore his mother, head leaning against the somewhat dusty glass window as he stares at the tiny village houses passing by.

There is a good chance they're in Scotland now, because the clouds are swirling ominously, sombre and heavy as though they are going to spill any moment. He has opened the window on the top as a favour to his mother who had seemed rather convinced that the compartment has not been scrubbed in centuries of time. James thinks she is exaggerating just a little bit, because in his opinion it could be far worse, but as she had got on the train first and James has a vague memory of her covertly slipping her wand into her coat pocket when the guard had entered, he is willing to give her the benefit of doubt. After all, it had been warm, airless and stuffy, which is far from the cool and gentle wind that feels like silk against his skin and is now ruffling his hair, making a greater mess of it than it had been before. It is nice, James thinks, wondering when exactly he'd become to revel in it and he allows himself a small smile.

"Listen to this, sweetheart," his mother says suddenly and he looks up guiltily as though he should not be enjoying himself when she sounds so thoroughly put out, but his mother isn't paying attention. Not to him anyway. "'The Minister has just announced she is dealing with the unfortunate situation at the Department of Magical Transportation to the best of her ability,'" she reads from the Prophet and scoffs, "This says a lot about her abilities. One would assume she'd be competent enough to organise alternative travel methods to the citizens affected, but I had to speak to at least _twelve_ French muggles to get us on this lousy train, and I have to say they make even less sense than the English ones… those _ridiculous_ accents! Thankfully the station master was from Soho. He was very kind and made sure we'd get first class seats on the arriving train." She finishes her rant and looks around the compartment with an expression of mild distaste, which James assumes is her way of questioning the French idea of first class. He covers a soft snort with a cough and decides not to say anything about what she calls her _exacting standards_ and James simply calls being a bloody snob.

"Oh, was he now, Dorea?" says his father with a hint of amusement as he glances up from what seems to be an extremely lengthy letter indeed. "Should I be concerned about you running off with a bourgeoisie? Mind you, I love the French, but I do find them awfully handsy, don't you?"

"I had not considered it, no." Dorea offers, lips twitching slightly as she turns the page, "Are you speaking from experience, Charlus?"

"Indeed. I also had the misfortune of meeting the station master." Charlus responds in his usual dry tone, utterly unaffected by the _implications_ of his own words.

"How very modern." Dorea remarks, eyebrows shooting up, "I thought muggles didn't approve of… homosexual tendencies." The way she says it, carefully choosing the words and almost dragging them on her tongue, makes James turn his head and hide a smile. Uptight, that's what she is. Not that he has any ground to speak on. If it weren't for Marlene and perhaps Sirius, he'd still be acting as though he has a stick shoved up his arse. Of course, one never loses their heritage, but James can safely say he could do far worse. Lips twitching, he busies himself with a cigarette as he continues to observe one of those carefully mocking conversations which are rather frequent in the Potter household.

"They don't," Charlus acknowledges, looking up at his wife, "Then again, France has always been more… lenient when it comes to social issues. And didn't you say he was from Soho?" he adds delicately, oblivious to the sound of a clicking lighter in the background.

"That would explain a great deal," agrees Dorea and folds her paper. Seemingly bored of anything it has to offer, she sets it down on her lap and looks expectantly at her husband. "You've been reading this for a while now, Charlus, what does it say?" she inquires, gesturing at a couple of sheets of parchment in her husband's hands.

"See for yourself, dear," Charlus offers with a mild expression of amusement and holds out the letter for her to read. She scans her eyes over the parchment, becoming more and more astounded by each moment.

"James?" she asks eventually and James looks up at her in question. Her face is that nondescript mask once again, which she seems to think James cannot see through, but he has known her for 16 years and it is becoming less and less difficult by each day.

"What is it, mother?" he asks, turning towards her and not bothering to hide his curiosity.

"How is it that you've managed to collect 28 detentions this year? It must be about three detentions a month!" She looks stern and disapproving, but her voice is almost impressed and James cannot help but look thoroughly amused.

"Did I really?" James inquires as though this is news to him, "I can only assume I'm excellent company."

"I'm sure you are, James," says Charlus retrieving the letter from his wife and furrowing his brows slightly, "But you have an Invisibility Cloak, have you not considered wearing it about?" James lets out a soft snort.

"If I made such fatal mistakes, you'd have a much more concerning problem on your hands."

"So the fact that you've managed to gain more detentions than anyone else in the history of Hogwarts is all down to your Potter charm?" Dorea asks, lifting a brow at him. _The Potter Charm_. James smiles and bites his lip. His mother often referred to it as such, as it sounded much nicer than just saying his father and himself had a horrible tendency to see how far they could push people. Likewise, his grandmother had always been quite a star, which is probably the very reason she is now dead. Best not to think about it too hard.

"Quite possibly." James concedes, with a small elegant shrug. He has a feeling his mother doesn't mind at all. In fact, he would give away his beloved antique Silver Arrow if it turned out that she actually does find issues with his behaviour, and that is a great promise indeed.

"I'm not very fond of the number 28, why don't you try and keep it at a sensible 21?" She requests after a moment or two and James _fucking knew it_! He flashes her a brief grin and nods.

"Oh, I will try for your sake, mother, but I won't make any promises. Especially unbreakable ones." He says sensibly and his father nods along in agreement as though he can understand James's reluctance to give a definite guarantee.

"I suppose that is reasonable," Charlus says, mostly directing his words towards his wife, "Now, it also says you've ended up in the Hospital Wing 17 times this year?" He keeps frowning at the page as though it has somehow offended his senses and James thinks he doesn't want him to look up at all. He knows his father's concern well enough. There is always a hint of unease, but it is vague as though he is not quite feeling it and it is more about formalities than anything else. James isn't foolish enough to think this means his father does not care for him, because he very well does, but the pettiness and the obsession with propriety is downright maddening. He _knows_ most families don't work like that. He knows that from the first time he ever met Marlene and he cannot help but feel he is missing out on something. Even if it is not about blood, it has to be about status and appearances.

"What is this, an intervention?" James snaps, because it sounds like an accusation. An accusation of what? Recklessness? James is suddenly reminded of each and every time his parents have objected to him standing out in the rain, because it will _ruin his robes_. What nonsense. "It is not as though you did any better back in the day. I've heard plenty from Professor McGonagall." He sounds defensive, James knows and hates it, but there's little else he can do. He's never been as excellent of an actor as his parents.

"I had my mother to tell me to be more careful," his father points out, not at all surprised or bothered by his son's sudden change in mood. "…which I didn't take any notice of." He concedes, sighing and folding up the letter, stuffing it into his breast pocket.

"What your father is trying to say is don't end up dead, James." His mother intervenes with one of her scarce warm smiles that she spares only for the family. Charlus snorts.

"Well, that's all cleared up then," James says in a tight voice as he tries to wave away the childish resentment. He's being ridiculous. Over-thinking everything. Despite everything, the corner of his mouth tugs upwards and he cannot help but look up at them. There is a silence in which they all regard each other in mild amusement and then-

"James, are you smoking?" Comes the incredulous voice of his mother, but she doesn't seem awfully upset.

"Absolutely not." James replies, blinking innocent eyes at both of his parents, but already his mother is pulling out her own slimline cigarette holder and looking at the men of his family expectantly.

"Well, is no one going to offer me light?" She demands as both James and Charlus busy themselves to search their pockets for a lighter, with odd little smiles on their faces.


End file.
